


soften your gaze

by darkcomedylateshow (orphan_account)



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Other, fun with Shakespearean acting exercises, just some scenes I had in my head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 22:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15592578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/darkcomedylateshow
Summary: Barry, he hears in his head,you’ve lost your intention.





	soften your gaze

Acts one and two go over painlessly. Act three is when things really start to fall apart, and finally he hears the death knell: “Alright, hold.” 

Then Gene's standing in his face again, which is something Barry can never get used to. Big wide ghost eyes, more tired than usual. He sees him breathing in deeply in to calm himself. Barry does it too. It’s just him and Sally onstage, alone for the first time in nearly the whole show. The room is dead quiet; people stop tapping on their phones. 

“What is your intention, Barry?” 

“I—I don’t know.”

“Give me something,” he says.

“I want to get her to stay—“ 

“You want to convince her, great. Okay. Let’s narrow it down. Try saying it to plea.” 

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Barry attempts to plea, his voice cracking a little over the _hell_. He grabs Sally’s arm, the way they blocked it.

“Let go of me,” Sally starts, before Gene cuts them off again. 

"You need to listen to your body, Barry,” Gene warns. "You’re in your head. You have to want to reach out and grab her. Can you give me your next line?” 

“Let go of me,” goes Sally. “I gotta get my girl. She’s downstairs in a cab all alone."

He straightens his shoulders and looks into Sally’s eyes, before delivering his lines machine-gun pace: “Good God, what are you? Some puking college girl? Why—in time of war you could be shot for what you’re doing—“ 

“Alright, enough. Do you have any idea where you are, in this scene? Who Walter is? Because I’m not seeing anybody except Barry in all the choices you’re making.” 

Sally drops her cool. “Gene, we’re not going to get anywhere in this rehearsal if you just keep ripping into Barry.” 

Gene spins towards her, hands halfway in the air. “I’m trying to direct him. And clearly it’s not working. I’m sorry that your scene partner, your co-star, is as stiff as a box of fucking rocks!”

“Gene.” Sally’s voice goes low. Then Gene drops his hands, slowly, and walks out of the rehearsal room. He’s never done that before. Even in shows when people were going up on their lines and Natalie was on her phone and Sally loudly threatened the assistant stage manager. 

No one speaks for a moment. They just look at each other. Then Barry realizes everyone has turned towards him. 

* * *

 He finds him in the parking lot, smoking a cigarette in his massive black SUV. He climbs in next to him and sits there, feeling smothered. Gene takes a long drag and looks at him. “Barry, I’m sorry I—“

“I think directing this has taken a toll on you. Seriously. I don’t know if we should postpone the show, or cancel the whole thing, but—“

“What are you talking about?” Gene says, eyebrows set together. “This is all there is. You know that. We can’t stop now.”

"Okay, but. You need to be taking care of your health. Your mental health. Like, I know it's hard sometimes to take seriously but Sally's gotten me into some like, _self care_ and stuff? And it's really—" 

"See? Assertive. Henpecking. You’ve got a little Walter in you.” Gene smiles. It’s silent for a beat. Then he lowers his eyes and says: “I’m doing the best I can in a time like this. So don’t worry about me, alright?” 

“Yeah.” Barry swallows down hard, and he almost smiles at how stupid he feels— _cut to Barry; gulp!_ —and how Macbethian it all really is. “I understand.” 

“Run through the end. And make sure everyone washes their fucking costumes. Now can you get out of my car?” 

He does. Barry watches him weave away in the parking lot, before he goes back into the theater. 

* * *

_Barry_ , he hears in his head, _you’ve lost your intention._ His  _Front Page_ book is sitting face down on the nightstand, staring him down. It's not that he doesn't know the lines. It's more like he's afraid of the work it will take to make them mean something. Instead he digs through his bag, flips through the Speaking Shakespeare book, and finds the exercise where you punch out every word physically. The example given is from  _Hamlet_ : 

_Claudius has just observed the re-enactment of his murder of his brother. He has stopped the play, calling for light. Light has been cast into his consciousness. Though of course he already knew that he killed the king, this is the first moment where he really acknowledges to himself the nature of his crime, and begins to face it. We can know something but only truly recognize it when we speak it out._

In the shower, he mouths each word to himself. “O”—hands to chest, breath of air—“my - offense”—stabbing motion—“is - rank!”

He taps out the iambic on his chest—da _da_ da _da_ da _da_ da _da_ da _da. "_ It _hath_ the _pri_ mal _el_ dest  _curse_ u _pon_ it—a _bro_ ther’s _mur_ der.”

Fuck. God damn it. He sounds like an idiot. “Shit,” he whispers. “ _Shit—_ “ and then he hulks out, lapsing back into the meathead who’d never touched Shakespeare in his life, and next thing he knows Sally’s polka-dotted shower curtain is yanked down onto the floor and he’s yelling “ _fuck_!” so loud he hears it echo on the tile walls.

“Are you okay?” he hears her say, from the bedroom. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” The water stops. His head is pounding. “I just—slipped.” 

**Author's Note:**

> hmmmmmmmmmmmm


End file.
